Worst Foot Forward
by sydedalus
Summary: Set in an AU where House and Wilson do the romantic love thing without getting too OOC. Wilson has an accident and House gets to play doctor, but not in the way you're thinking. Humor, angst, hc. COMPLETE!
1. The Accident

**Title:** Worst Foot Forward  
**Pairing:** H/W  
**Rating:** T for language  
**Summary:** Set in an AU where House and Wilson do the romantic love thing without getting too OOC (I hope). Wilson has an accident and House gets to play doctor. Humor, angst, h/c. Fairly conventional fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.  
**Credits/Notes:** This story was inspired by part of PWCorgigirl's story "Pesach" (story id: 2649691) which I highly recommend to anyone who likes good House fic. I'm shamelessly stealing from it here. Also, this fic takes place in the little AU I've been carving out for House and Wilson in another story, "The Perils of Coming Home Early" (M rated – avoid if that bothers you!), but you don't need to read it to get what's going on here. :)

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**Chapter 1: The Accident**

Wilson set his teeth for the hundredth time—surely he would have no enamel left by the time House got home—and tried to focus on something other than pain. For the hundred and fiftieth time, in lieu of letting himself scream, he replayed the scene from an hour ago that had landed him on their couch with his foot wrapped in dish towels of ice, doing his best to adjust to what he was becoming more and more certain was a broken bone or two. Probably two.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It had been a stupid mistake. An accident. It had been over a month since they'd confessed their undying love in the form of almost violent physicality, he and Julie had agreed to go their separate ways, and his stuff had begun the great migration from a roomy house to a relatively small apartment. God forbid House keep anything clean or in order. Wilson wasn't too much of a neat freak, but after two weeks of boxing and moving his things on stray afternoons and two more weeks of walking past the boxes every day, he'd had enough: it was time to sit down and unpack. House had managed to weasel out of helping by volunteering to buy groceries and cook dinner. Wilson had parsed out the real message: he needed some time to himself. Okay. Fine. They had seen an awful lot of each other recently, what with sleeping in the same bed, driving to work together in nauseating new-couple-in-love fashion, and still keeping up the old habits of lunching together and barging in to one another's offices. Wilson understood. In fact, he'd been looking forward to a little time to himself too.

But then he'd picked up a box that had seen one too many moves, the bottom seam had split, and the twenty-pound door stop shaped like a rainbow trout his crazy aunt had given him ten years ago had fallen on his bare right foot. He yelped, hit the floor, and curled into a ball, fingers digging against the hardwood floor until he could see and breathe properly again. When he could move, he'd dizzily picked himself up, limped to the kitchen for ice and towels, and picked up the phone. And when he heard the Mexican Hat Dance, House's ringtone of the moment, playing across the room, he'd loudly cursed House for not taking his cell phone with him, limped to the couch, and begun grinding the enamel off of his molars.

As much as he needed House to get home and make him feel better right now, Wilson wasn't exactly looking forward to the million and one comments House would have about the irony of the situation. In fact, he was dreading it. And the longer he had to wait with this unbelievable pain radiating from his foot, the more irritable he became.

He replayed the scene four more times, thought up creative new curses to rain down on House, and swallowed the same mouthful of vomit twice before he heard the step-thump combination he knew so well in the uncarpeted hallway. The jingle of a key in the lock. He turned his eyes toward the ceiling and closed them with a soft groan.

The next few hours couldn't be anything other than unbearable. House would make him go to the ER and he'd have to endure tests and poking and prodding, then House was taunt him about dropping that hideous rainbow trout on his foot every day until one of them died.

"Hey, Wilson, come help with the bags, you lazy son of a—what happened?"

Wilson smiled bitterly. He'd heard House thumping across the room and he probably could've come up with that opener himself.

He felt House take up the space next to him and a hand on his hairline.

"Hey."

He'd forgotten how gentle House could be. He opened his eyes and…oh, crap, there was that bile again.

"Aww, Jimmy, my favorite pair," House griped.

Not too keen on eyeing the remains of lunch, Wilson looked up at House who was making his best grossed-out frowny face at his shoes, the deep lines in his forehead and mouth cutting cartoonishly into his flesh.

Wilson hiccupped and tried to catch his breath. "Sorry." He hoped House would say something nice right now. He needed nice from House.

But House kept making faces at his shoes. "Gross," he complained, "even cats aren't this rude."

Wilson closed his eyes again, 'sor-ry' ringing out in his head. Sometimes he couldn't take House. Really. Sometimes he needed House to be human and— he hissed as House removed the top towel from his foot. Dully, he watched House dump the ice out, grasp the end of the couch, and bend down as best he could to clean his shoes. Of course House would do that first. Of course. He closed his eyes again.

When he heard House rattling that damn pill bottle, he felt himself begin to snap. _So sorry for annoying you_, he seethed inwardly.

"Wilson."

"What?" he growled.

"Here."

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again. House was holding out two pills and giving him a semi-concerned look. He curled his lip at the offering. _I don't want any of your damn Vicodin_.

"Your foot's broken," House said plainly. "I don't want to listen to you bitch about pain when I can give you something now."

"Wasn't bitching," Wilson muttered.

House half-smiled and put the pills on his chest. "You didn't see your face," he said. "You were bitching." Wilson watched him prepare to move. "Chew both of those," he said, taking a step back so he could navigate the couch and the coffee table successfully. "Odds are you won't keep them down."

_Ringing endorsement_, Wilson thought, but he put the pills in his mouth anyway. House probably did have some idea of how much this hurt. He made a disgusted face at the taste as he crushed the pills between his molars. House _liked_ this?

He heard House return and drop something in the vicinity of his favorite chair, then House appeared in his line of sight, gulping down water. House stopped drinking and offered the glass to him. He didn't have to shake his head to say no. House shrugged and disappeared again. Wilson heard the creak of leather and a level three sigh as House sat down. House was settling in? After a sigh like that, it was useless to try to get him to move for at least an hour. At the rattle of the bottle again, Wilson was ready to twist his body around just so he could give House a scathing glare.

House spoke before he started moving. "I've been on my feet for an hour and a half," he heard House say. "Give those fifteen minutes to kick in. At least."

Wilson swallowed the last of the chewed Vicodin. It was an improvement on the taste of vomit—slight but definite.

"So," he heard House say with another deep sigh that indicated this wasn't the way he wanted to spend his afternoon either, "want to tell me what happened?"

Wilson closed his eyes again and hoped this stuff kicked in fast.


	2. Old Cane, New Cane

Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

Thanks for the reviews! Perils will be coming back soon. I'm trying to finish a long scene instead of breaking it into two short scenes, and it's taking longer as a result. Sorry for the wait! I don't know why the boys are so angry in this fic – it wrote itself that way. Hmm…

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**Chapter 2: Old Cane, New Cane**

Wilson was in another world by the time House wrested his tired body from the comfort of the worn leather chair he loved and dialed the hospital to let the ER monkeys know who would be hobbling in soon and what he would need. He bullied his way through the receptionist to the senior nurse and though he could tell she wasn't pleased to be talking to him, he heard her tough tone melt when he mentioned who the patient was. She told him thirty minutes was the best she could do even for the beloved Dr. Wilson, he barked at her about freeing up machines and personnel, threatened to call Cuddy when he wasn't catered to as quickly as he would've liked, and they hung up after affirming mutual dislike.

House paused over the couch. Wilson's eyes were rolling furiously under his half-closed lids. He smiled a little—Wilson was in a place without pain right now—and gimped back to the bedroom for his old cane.

As a rule, he didn't like to keep them around, but he'd found it was easier to have a spare in case something happened than to wing it. His leg was not happy, nor was the rest of his right side. He'd promised himself a full hour of reclining; fifteen minutes was barely a drop in the bucket. And now he'd be in and out of uncomfortable plastic chairs for at least two hours—_if _Wilson didn't need surgery. He'd studied Wilson's foot while Wilson told him what had happened and it looked and sounded to him like a clean break, but he couldn't be sure.

The offending stone trout caught his eye as he left the bedroom and he sneered at it. Today was supposed to be relaxing. Tonight was supposed to be about love—or about food and sex, at least. Instead, Wilson would be doped up and sleepy, and he'd be left to scrounge something from the cafeteria or make a sandwich or get something else that could only be unappetizing after the length of time he'd spent picking out ingredients for dinner tonight. The timing of Wilson's little trout incident was very bad indeed.

As usual, one of Wilson's pet patients had up and died on him a few days ago and he'd taken it especially hard. At the same time, House had gone toe to toe with Cuddy yet again and despite the long hours he and his staff had put in, this was one of the rare cases they correctly diagnosed too late. He was also demoralized and when he was demoralized, he took it out on Wilson. He'd quickly learned that that arrangement wasn't going to work now that they were living and sleeping together. Over the past few days, he'd spent a lot of time awake, sneaking out of bed after Wilson fell asleep, and Wilson had given him crap about it. The sex had been angry, guilty, or mechanical since Wednesday. Today was supposed to be relaxing. They'd agreed on that after last night's argument. They hadn't gone to bed angry, but they hadn't gone to be happy either.

Dammit. He really wanted to kick that trout. Today wasn't supposed to involve work at all. And to top it off, he was too sore to bother putting on clean shoes. He sneered at the trout again, stopped in the kitchen to grab something for Wilson to barf into if the need arose, and came to rest next to the couch again. He wrinkled his nose at the splatter on the floor. Someone was going to have to clean that up before it became encrusted.

He whapped the couch once mercilessly with his cane. "Hey."

Wilson's eyes snapped open, pupils dilating. "Jesus," he breathed.

"Close," House quipped. He nodded toward the door. "Come on."

Wilson blinked heavily at him and lifted a shaky hand to his head. "Gimme a second," he mumbled.

House tossed the plastic grocery bag he'd selected to Wilson. Wilson stared dumbly at it for a moment before he remembered what had happened. Wasn't there something about House's shoes? Surely he didn't… his gaze traveled to House's feet and…yes, he did. Oops. He remembered he was annoyed at how House had reacted, but he couldn't help himself from looking sheepish. House was particular about that pair of Nikes…

"It's going to heal that way…" House prodded.

Wilson clenched his teeth—this too felt familiar—and slowly sat up, doing his best not to hiss at the new pain moving caused in his foot. He wanted to ask House for a sock for his other foot, but he also remembered that House was tired. And the fact that House was shoving his old cane in Wilson's face…okay, no socks.

Carefully, he transferred his foot from the couch to the floor, holding his knee the same way he saw House hold his knee at least once a day. Eerie. He accepted the cane and got to his feet with the help of the couch. House had one of those contemplative expressions on his face and Wilson couldn't tell if he was about to smirk or offer a helping hand. House gazed at him for another long moment and Wilson was ready crack and ask what he was looking at when he turned without a word and started for the door.

Wilson took a tentative step forward and began putting weight on his foot. He grunted, grabbing the arm of the couch to keep himself from falling. That _hurt_.

House had stopped halfway to the door and was waiting, his back to Wilson, listening.

"Can't put weight on it," Wilson said, getting his balance back.

House turned his head to look back. "You can hop, can't you?" he said.

Wilson noted House's stiff posture and bit his lip. He knew that most of the reason House wasn't helping was because he was tired and had enough trouble moving his own weight around right now, but he also detected silent anger. Or maybe just irritability, but it seemed to him like a holdover from last night's fight. Well. He hadn't dropped the fish on his foot on purpose. Gritting his teeth, he did his best to hobble toward House, letting his heel touch the floor as lightly and quickly as possible and using the cane on his left side to keep his balance and take some of his weight. He'd always known this was harder than House made it look—he'd been there for the adjustment, after all—but he hadn't thought it would be _this_ hard.

House glanced at him when he came to a stop. "You forgot the bag," House said.

Wilson looked back across the room, which had tripled in size since he'd crossed it, and his heart sank. There was no way he could go all the way back there and come all the way back here again.

"Am I being punished?" he asked, trying not to sound angry. He wasn't angry. Just tired and disappointed.

House glanced at him again, his expression still unreadable. "Not by me."

He started forward and Wilson, sighing, followed.


	3. The Ride

Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

This fic is progressing more slowly than I'd expected. Sorry!

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**Chapter 3: The Ride**

Wilson relished the feel of the cool passenger's side window glass against his temple. If God or the universe or someone else was trying to teach him a lesson in empathy…well, he wasn't very interested in learning.

"I can't believe you didn't take your cell phone with you," he muttered.

This was the third or fourth time he'd said it, but he felt entitled to grumble. His foot hurt despite the Vicodin, House was being an asshole, and he was already embarrassed enough about the accident without all the extra embarrassment of having his colleagues treat him he was about to encounter.

"_I _didn't drop that monstrosity on your foot," House griped. "Why were you bringing it over in the first place?"

Wilson sighed. "I don't know." Talking to House was a bad idea. House was in one of those snappish moods that made communicating with him impossible. Wilson concentrated on breathing instead.

He listened to "Black Dog" and "Rock and Roll," and waited for House to skip forward to "Misty Mountain Hop." The fade in of "The Battle of Evermore" and—there. But House was always attentive to music. He'd taken over the stereo in Wilson's car completely since Wilson had moved in. House had two cars and a motorcycle and yet he'd led Wilson to the Volvo. Wilson understood that the Corvette was for special occasions because driving it made a mess of his leg—he knew it had been difficult for House to let him drive it a few weeks ago to one of the more secluded make-out spots, but in his opinion, the intensity of the sex they'd had that night more than made up for not getting to drive—but House's other car was as plain and boring as this one. He hadn't asked why House preferred his car. He didn't plan to ask. But right now, it bothered him.

He felt the car come to a stop and imagined House breaking with his left foot. It was a smooth stop; he remembered being in the car for the jerky stops five years ago when House was learning to drive with both feet. Yes, dammit, he had been there. Most of the time he'd been worried about dying in a horrible accident and he'd let House know all about his fears while House alternately grumbled and jibed, stopping and starting shakily. But he'd been there. He'd been supportive. He had, dammit. He hadn't been sour or vitriolic. …but then again, his foot hadn't been broken then, nor was he missing a chunk of skeletal muscle.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you holding up?" House asked.

There—that was what he wanted. But he was going to be as miserable as House had been. He'd earned that right.

"I want to go home," he mumbled.

House squeezed his shoulder, gave it a brief pat, and let go. _I know. _

House glanced at the light to see if it had changed, then back to Wilson. Wilson was pale and sweaty, clearly still in pain. House recognized the stage of pain he was in: despondent indifference. I don't care what you do—anything is better than this—but you've got to do something. It wasn't a place anyone liked to be. He would never wish this on Wilson—probably on certain clinic patients, and maybe on Cuddy, but never on Wilson.

The light turned green and he accelerated with a wince, almost happy that Wilson wouldn't notice it. Naturally independent, even with a lover, he'd learned to bury his reactions at home the way he buried them at work in the weeks he'd been with Wilson. Wilson knew he didn't like anyone fussing over him, but he forgot sometimes. House would be in the middle of a serious wave of pain, wanting only to be left alone to ride it out, when he'd feel Wilson's eyes him. It was never more than that—well, he would notice Wilson going out of his way to keep him seated for a few hours, treating him more carefully than he liked to be treated—but even that gaze was too much. He didn't ask for it and he didn't want it. It felt too much like pity. He'd snapped a few weeks ago, they'd fought, and then they'd made up. If he chose to linger over this relationship, he would have found that they spent a good portion of their time fighting in one way or another. He chose not to linger.

Ten minutes later, he turned the engine off and waited for Wilson to stir.

"Think you can make it inside," he asked uncertainly, "or should I grab a wheelchair?"

Wilson took a deep breath and opened his eyes, squinting in the daylight. House had finagled a handicapped placard for this vehicle and though Wilson's designated parking space was just as close to the door as most of the handicapped spots were, he was putting the placard to use right now. Good thing too, Wilson thought. They couldn't get this close to the ER entrance any other way.

Wilson took another deep breath. "I'm good," he exhaled, rubbing his eyes. He heard House opening his door and reached for the handle on his side. This was going to be so much fun.


	4. Treatment

Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

This took a really long time for some reason. Sorry for the wait! The 'House plays doctor' part is laced throughout if you take the meaning of that literally. The more fun meaning of that…I'm not sure if it'll come up in this fic since it's rated T. It might go in that direction, though. :)

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**Chapter 4: Treatment**

House cracked an eye to glance at Wilson. Still dozing. Good. Dr. Jackass What's-His-Name was taking his sweet time with the x-rays. Then again, House had insisted that the most senior member of orthopedics and the radiologist he disliked least among those working today take a look at the x-rays first. But—like that mattered. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.

Normally he would be pestering Dr. Jackass, but between walking Wilson in, which had been something of an ordeal, getting him settled, which had also been an ordeal and the least sexy striptease in the history of stripteases, arguing with Dr. Jackass and Wilson about which tests to order (both thought he was being excessive) and how much pain medication Wilson should receive (Wilson had notions about suffering that he might consider noble but House found simply moronic), shuffling down to radiology to breathe on the tech's neck, barking at several nurses about getting Wilson anti-upchuck medicine and saline in a timely fashion after Wilson upchucked twice (nowhere near House's shoes this time, thankfully), and the least comfortable chairs in the whole hospital, he was wiped out. Head tilted back against the wall, leg resting on Jackass's stool and a pillow he'd wrestled from the nurses, he didn't want to move again for a long time. Wilson was comfortable…that was all that really mattered.

He heard Wilson start snoring gently through the pain meds. He would have smiled if he hadn't been so tired: he was on intimate terms with that snore. He could tell how deeply asleep Wilson was by the pitch, timbre, and depth of it. Right now, Wilson was barely asleep at all. Pain meds, House knew, didn't allow for the deepest sleep.

He wasn't too surprised then when he heard Wilson snort, smack his lips, and a pitiful sound come from him.

"House," he groaned.

House feigned sleep.

"Go lie down somewhere," Wilson slurred. "You're making me tired."

"Shut up," House muttered. "Go back to sleep."

"Did I miss Grudzielanek?" Wilson asked.

House cracked an eye open again. "Who?" He remembered before Wilson could explain. "Oh, right. No."

Wilson was wasted, eyes at half-mast, a goofy smile on his face, head turned on the pillow so he could look at House. He wouldn't be in limping condition for at least another hour. House began to wonder if he really had been too liberal with the pain meds…but then again, he really didn't want to hear Wilson bitch. …okay, and he also didn't want Wilson to suffer, but mostly he didn't want to hear him bitch.

"Shouldn't you be out there destroying his soul?" Wilson asked drunkenly.

House tried to roll one eye and, failing, closed both of them again. "Shut up."

"Seriously, honey, I love you, but you look like crap," Wilson nettled sarcasticly. "Go take a nap."

House cracked both eyes this time. "What did they give you?" he asked suspiciously. "You're acting like an idiot."

"You mean I'm acting like you," Wilson replied, his tone snippish but playful.

House recognized it now: he _had _been too liberal with the pain meds: this was Wilson when he was very, very drunk. He had a talent for biting sarcasm once his inhibitions dropped away. House had been pleased to learn just how much talent he had when properly uninhibited: he hadn't imagined the sex could be that interesting. He smirked a little. Too liberal was better than too conservative, though if Wilson was awake and yapping, albeit incoherently, maybe he hadn't been liberal enough.

"So why don't _you_ go find what's-his-face and bitch about the service," House muttered, eyes closing again.

He wanted to rest, but could feel Wilson watching him. Damn. He hated that. He didn't need to be watched. _Go to sleep!_

He squinted tiredly at Wilson, becoming increasingly annoyed with the glaring florescent light in the room. "Your foot hurt?" he asked.

Wilson glanced down at his foot. "Kinda."

"That's a no, then," House said, enjoying the red-orange of his inner eyelids once again. "Go back to sleep."

Wilson's voice dropped to a pseudo-sexy register. "Why don't you come over here and help me with that."

"Not at work," House mumbled. "We agreed."

"We're not at work," Wilson pointed out.

House made a face and covered his eyes with a palm. "Where do you think we are if we're not at work?" This was just the time for Wilson to become altered on him. Just the time.

"C'mon," Wilson whined, "broken bones here. Need a cuddle."

House massaged his forehead. "You just puked on yourself what, fifteen minutes ago? Forgive me if I don't want to stick my tongue down your throat right now."

"You always want to stick your tongue down my throat," Wilson replied.

House grunted.

"You're going to make me do this myself, aren't you?" Wilson said.

House sighed. If he wasn't so tired, he would find some way to oblige his lover, but the doors in the ER didn't lock and Wilson was hovering around Saturn at the moment.

"Hands where I can see them, Jimmy," House admonished. "Don't forget you work here too."

"You're not even looking," Wilson complained.

House sighed and wrenched his eyes open—which he promptly rolled to the ceiling. "Get rid of it."

"I was trying to," Wilson whined.

"Think unsexy thoughts," House advised.

"You're making it difficult," Wilson answered.

House sighed again. "Take a look at your misshapen foot and think about having it set."

Wilson glanced at his foot again. "Killjoy," he mumbled.

Satisfied that his job was done, House let his eyelids flutter. He could still feel Wilson's eyes on him, but he was certain that if he was quiet for thirty seconds, Wilson would succumb to the meds again. It was agony, but he was rewarded by soft snores by the time he'd counted to twenty-six.

House shifted in the chair and tried to turn his mind off so he could join Wilson in slumber. As if that ever worked.

He was just beginning to get annoyed with the wait again when the door burst open. House squinted again. Dr. Jackass and that guy from ortho. And they had x-rays.

"Good news and bad news," Jackass said to Wilson, who had started awake. House glanced quickly at the blanket covering Wilson: the bulge was gone. He smirked a little. As funny as it might have been, it was better this way.

He sat up and whistled sharply at the ortho guy who was putting the x-rays on the lightboard. House crooked his fingers: _gimme_. The ortho guy rolled his eyes, took the x-rays down, and walked them to House. Jackass shot him an annoyed look: Wilson's attention was on House now instead of on him.

"As I was saying," Jackass continued, "there's good news and bad news." Wilson's attention shifted back to Jackass.

House examined the x-rays and deduced the good and the bad before Jackass could continue.

"The good news is, you don't need surgery," House interrupted, adopting Jackass's professional tone. Wilson's attention tennis-courted back to House. "The bad news is you won't be walking on it for at least three weeks. And you need a cast."

House passed the x-rays back to the ortho guy, who rolled his eyes again. "Why am I even here?" he asked.

"You're going to set the bone," House replied. He waved a dismissive hand. "And you can tell him what he broke if he's interested." He cocked his head. "Or you can just give him the x-rays. He's not blind." House smirked. "Just clumsy."

Wilson glared sloppily at him.

By this time, Jackass had steam coming out of his ears. "Then why am _I_ here?" he asked, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.

"You drew a Saturday shift," House answered with a shrug. _Not my problem_ his body language said.

The ortho guy glared at House more pointedly than Wilson had and handed Wilson the x-ray. "Right. Thanks, House." He turned to Wilson and began narrating the breaks. First metatarsal, lucky not to have crushed the bone, second metatarsal, not as badly fractured, both bones in the big toe, along with the first metatarsal they had born the brunt of the blow, etc. House tuned him out, looking instead for the bone-setting supplies. Nothing. No nurse either.

"You going to do this or what?" he said loudly to Dr. Jackass over the ortho guy's speech.

"A nurse is on her way," Jackass replied tightly.

House's eyebrow arched. "Taking a while, isn't she?" he said.

The suggestion was not lost on Jackass, who glared at House and left to round up the nurse.

The ortho guy was yakking on and on about Wilson's prognosis as though Wilson didn't know the procedure for a broken bone.

House rolled his eyes. "He's not a layman," he barked.

The ortho guy stopped talking and tensed, deliberately avoiding looking at House. Steam was coming out of his ears now. "Doesn't hurt to be reminded," he growled.

House made a juvenile face for good measure, but let the ortho guy continue. He shifted his focus to Wilson instead. Wilson was blinking vacantly at the ortho guy, trying to pay attention but not completely succeeding. Poor stupid clumsy Wilson. He sighed to himself. What a crappy Saturday.

Jackass returned with a nurse, glaring at House, and Wilson perked up. House watched Wilson talk to her and wondered if this was one of the nurses he'd wooed. Probably not—ER nurses didn't have much time to be wooed—unless she was a floater. He couldn't help himself: as much as he tried to fight it, he was jealous. Wilson shouldn't be talking to her. Whatever he was saying—didn't matter—he just shouldn't be talking to her. Wilson was his. He couldn't help himself from tuning in to their conversation either, though he probably would have done it anyway.

"—don't need that," Wilson said.

"Are you sure, Dr. Wilson?" she asked. House knew they were discussing the amnesia-inducing substance she'd brought, but that didn't matter at all. He saw her body language. He heard that tone. She was flirting. She was _flirting_ with Wilson. House's chest was on fire before he knew what was happening. A series of violent acts flashed through his mind. Wilson was _his_. No one was going to flirt with Wilson but him.

He watched her look up at the two doctors and shake her head. The ortho guy had been prepping Wilson's foot and he was about to—_what?_

"Wait," House said. "Wait."

Four heads turned to him. He addressed the one he cared about—the one who was being a total idiot, and who might have been flirting back (and he was in so much trouble if that was the case).

"You _want_ to remember this?"

"Hou-se," Wilson complained.

House eyed him. Wilson tried to eye him back. House couldn't believe Wilson was arguing. His eyes bugged out. "Seriously?" he asked.

Wilson didn't back down.

"It's not ballsy," House said in his best 'you're an idiot and you don't realize it—_how _can you not realize it?' voice. "It's stupid."

Wilson rolled his eyes and glanced at the three medical professionals hovering around him. "He's not going to back off," Wilson told them, half-questioning, half-grumbling. He settled back. "Fine."

"Dr. House—" Jackass began.

"You heard him," House interrupted.

Jackass looked to Wilson. Wilson nodded, clearly annoyed but compliant.

He's_ annoyed_, House thought, I_ should be annoyed_. After all, Wilson would be awake but chances were that he wouldn't remember this later. Not the bone cracking part and probably not the foot-being-encased-in-plaster part either. But House, on the other hand, would have to suffer through all of it. He pitied himself. He should get a sandwich between the bone cracking and the plastering. Wilson wouldn't remember it if he left anyway…

"Ready?" the ortho guy asked Wilson.

Wilson nodded and had the good sense to stare at the ceiling. House wanted to look away but couldn't.

"Okay."

House cringed, appetite fleeing. Maybe there was something to that whole people close to the patient shouldn't treat the patient thing.

"How are we doing?" Jackass asked.

"Good," Wilson replied, beginning to blink very heavily.

House couldn't have said the same thing. Bone crunching had never bothered him before, but he was swallowing thickly now. Wilson's eyes were closing. That seemed like a good idea. House closed his eyes too, telling himself he wouldn't lose his cool over this. He was fine. Wilson hadn't even felt it. Wilson was fine. He was fine too.

Like Wilson, House didn't remember passing out. Later, he'd be very glad he hadn't gotten up to chase after any more doctors or nurses, and also pleased that he'd annoyed everyone in the room to the point that they didn't notice his head loll to the side or try to wake him up when they did. And even though Wilson was asleep when he came to, he wondered about Wilson and that nurse. Once Wilson had his wits about him again, he was going to be in trouble. Big trouble.


	5. Boys Will Be Boys

Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

**CONTENT WARNING: **This chapter contains implicit **sexual content**. I think it stays within the T rating since it's mostly suggestion, but please know that there is sexual content and if you dislike sexual content—especially when it occurs between two men—please skip this chapter.

House is still grouchy, but Wilson is beginning to get to him…

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**Chapter 5: Boys Will Be Boys**

House herded Wilson out of the car, up the three steps, and into the hall. Judging by the tension in his body, Wilson was learning to hate stairs too. House had been an absolute sucker while the ortho guy wrapped Wilson's foot and had gone to his office to fetch a pair of sweat pants and sock for Wilson's non-broken foot. Getting his jeans off had been difficult enough when they'd arrived and Wilson couldn't very well leave in his boxers (though House was tempted to make him do just that after he flirted with that nurse). He hadn't expected to find Cameron in the office when he'd arrived, though she seemed to live at work as much as he had in the past.

Not surprisingly, she was catching up on paperwork. Right. Dead patient. Lots of paperwork when they died.

She saw him unlock his door and opened the door separating his office from the conference room.

"Dr. House?"

House pulled his gym bag out of a corner, plopped it on his desk, and began digging for a pair of sweat pants and a clean sock. "Wilson broke his foot," he said.

Cameron winced sympathetically, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame. "How are you doing?" she asked.

House paused to glare at her and resumed digging, making it clear that he was going to ignore that question.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "We heard you fighting," she said. "Yesterday and the day before and the day before that…"

House glanced up again—he had the sweat pants, but where were the damn socks hiding? "We're fine."

Cameron's posture changed and House could feel the way she was looking at him: _yeah, I really believe that_.

House struck gold. He triumphantly brandished the sock and tossed the bag back to its corner. "See?" he said rounding the desk to leave, "you didn't really want to date me. All I do is pick fights."

"Dr. Wilson was picking his share, too," she pointed out as he crossed the room.

"Go home, Cameron," House called as the door swung shut behind him.

But House smiled a little at the memory. Cameron had become an unexpected confidant in recent weeks. Not that he considered her a confidant or treated her like one—no, he would never do that. But she was the only one who had the cajones to ask such direct questions. House wouldn't admit that on some level he admired her for being so brazen. Cuddy hinted at the same questions without openly asking and made gay jokes. Foreman did his usual distant, silent, note-taking thing and made the occasional biting observation between gay jokes. Chase just made gay jokes. He hoped they'd start teaching her a few good gay jokes. Gay jokes made everything more fun.

Wilson waited for House to unlock the door. He'd forgotten everything—keys, wallet, phone—and had been saved when the time came to produce his insurance card by House's usual ability to remember almost everything (except his own phone when he went to buy groceries). House pushed the door open and Wilson hobbled toward the couch.

"Nuh-uh," House admonished.

Wilson stopped and turned his head, grateful that the crutches were keeping him balanced.

"Bed," House said.

"It's six o'clock," Wilson protested.

"You fell asleep in the car," House pointed out. "You'll be out as soon as you lie down."

Wilson grumbled about House being a know-it-all and turned himself toward the bedroom.

House went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, then filled another one for Wilson and limped painfully toward the bedroom. Moving objects from one place to another was going to be a real chore for the next few weeks. But he wasn't going to think about that now. Not when he could almost taste the relief lying down would bring.

Wilson was struggling with the comforter and sheets when House arrived. House rolled his eyes, put the water down on Wilson's night table and flipped the sheets back. He went to the closet for the extra pillows he had for days when he needed them and tossed two on the bed while Wilson carefully sat down and tried to figure out whether the crutches should go on the floor or against the wall. House shook his head and settled down on his side of the bed, straining to take his shoes off. He made a disgusted noise and tried to keep the flakes of dried puke from getting under his fingernails. He wanted to give Wilson a hard time about it, but…eh, he was too tired.

By the time House had worked his pants and socks off—both of which Wilson had hit, _thanks, Jimmy_—Wilson had arranged the pillows under his foot, pulled the covers up, and was watching House struggle.

"Thanks for the pants," Wilson said sleepily. "Did I say that already? I can't remember."

"You did," House confirmed. "Just don't puke on them."

"Ha. Ha." Wilson rolled his eyes. "That gets funnier every time."

House ignored him, concentrating instead on moving his leg on to the bed and then…oh God, yes. _That_ was what he needed.

Wilson smiled, twisting his body so he could place a hand on House's chest. "Tired?"

"You have no idea," House exhaled, eyes closed, face contorting with relief. Every muscle on his right side had been aching mercilessly for hours. It felt so good to let the bed take his weight. Wilson really had no idea. He concentrated on breathing slowly in and out.

"Better?" Wilson asked with amusement. House's heartbeat under his hand felt good…and he wasn't really sure why he found House's relief amusing, but he did and he couldn't stop himself from smiling stupidly.

"Mmm…"

Wilson watched his face smooth out as he relaxed, breathing deeply. "Are we going to bed?" he asked.

"You are," House murmured.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he said. His hand traveled down House's chest and stomach to his boxers, slipping under the hem. "I'm not ready yet."

House groaned and batted Wilson's hand. "Tired," he mumbled.

Wilson watched him, waiting for some indication that he wasn't really tired, but House stayed relaxed. Wilson withdrew his hand and flopped on his back. "You're no fun," he pouted.

House turned his head to squint at Wilson. "You've got to be the only person on earth who reacts to painkillers like this."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Wilson replied.

"It is when I want to take a nap," House mumbled.

Wilson let out an exasperated sigh. "Can you just get me started?" he asked.

"Go to sleep," House groaned.

"Make me."

House grunted.

When Wilson didn't ask again, House thought the medicine had finally won the battle. He considered reaching over Wilson to turn the lamp off, but…nah, too tired. He settled down, making himself comfortable, and prepared to lie there until he fell asleep when he heard an all-too-familiar sound coming from Wilson's side of the bed. He opened his eyes and—yes, that was what he thought it was.

"Do you have any manners at all?" he grumbled.

"Thought you were tired," Wilson said, eyes closed.

"I am tired," House replied.

"Then go to sleep," Wilson said.

"I can't when you're doing that."

"There's still time if you want in."

"I'm _tired_."

"Then go to sleep."

House groaned in frustration. "Seriously, that's not okay."

"He's keeping me awake," Wilson responded. "I need to do this."

"Can't you do it in the bathroom?"

"Nope."

House sighed, carefully keeping his eyes closed. As tired and annoyed with Wilson as he was, this situation was doing things to him.

"Have you at least got a kleenex or something?" he asked. "The way today's going, you'll get it on me."

Wilson stopped and sat up to take his shirt off. "There," he said. "Now, do you mind? You're making it hard to concentrate."

"I do mind."

Wilson said nothing, closing his eyes and trying to keep his mind on what was going on inside his head.

"What was with you and that nurse?" House asked.

"You're making this really difficult."

"I know."

"C'mon," Wilson said. "I really need this."

"Were you flirting with her?"

Wilson didn't answer, trying to tune House out.

"Were you?"

…

"Jimmy?"

…

"Were you?"

…

"I think you were."

Wilson made a frustrated noise and let his hands fall by his sides. He couldn't concentrate with House bugging him. "What nurse?" he growled.

"The one who helped those jag offs pop your bone back into place."

"I don't remember a nurse."

"You two looked awfully familiar with each other."

"House. I don't remember." Wilson let out an annoyed sigh. "Besides…why would I flirt with someone else?"

"Instinct?"

Wilson punched him in the shoulder.

House grunted. "Fair enough."

"If you were so tired, why did you come in here?" Wilson grumbled. "Something wrong with the couch?"

"Puke stains."

"They don't bother me. Why did I have to come in here?"

"I thought you'd pass out like you did in the car," House said.

"I told you I wasn't tired."

"You're drugged to the split ends of your hair. If you aren't now, you will be soon."

Wilson grunted. "Just let me do this. I'll sleep better." He glanced down House's form and raised an eyebrow. "So will you. He's not tired."

House shifted around but to no avail. "Yes, he is."

Wilson laughed. "He just winked at me. I don't think he is."

House groaned and turned to his left, propping himself up on an elbow. "All right, all right. You so owe me."

Wilson nearly choked at the quick action of House's hand. House smirked at Wilson's face and the reaction his hand was getting. As soon as Wilson started to get comfortable with what he was doing, he stopped, took his hand back, put three fingers in his mouth, and made Wilson moan despite himself.

Two minutes later Wilson was snoring. House smirked again, cleaned his fingers with Wilson's soiled shirt, and turned the light off before he began putting himself to bed.


	6. PB&J

Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

Some language in this one that may offend. I think this is the end (except for the epilogue). Thanks very much for reviewing! I really appreciate it!

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**Chapter 6: PB&J**

House woke up a few hours later feeling better than he had all day. Relaxed. Comfortable. As relaxed and comfortable as he got.

Wilson slept next to him, his body heat radiating warmly across the eight or nine inches between them. House was getting used to waking up next to someone again. He hadn't forgotten how good it felt and how secure and happy (happy? really?) it made him. As much as they fought and as angry as he got at Wilson sometimes, the moment when he first woke up next to a warm, sleeping body made him forgive any transgressions. The corner of his mouth curled upward. But only for a moment. Wilson still owed him a pair of shoes. He wasn't convinced about the nurse either, but Wilson's push for a pre-nap snuggle may have saved him. It _was_ nice to wake up after a snatch of sex and Wilson's face when he came was more than worth the protests of tired muscles. Wilson and pain meds…who knew? He sniffed his fingers and smiled. He was starting to like that too.

House rolled onto his right side, pushing himself up with his right arm and moving his leg with his left hand at the same time in a move he had perfected years ago. His cane was where he'd put it before he went to sleep (no elves named Wilson had been moving his stuff around tonight) and he left Wilson snoozing as he went to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he carried five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and half a quart of milk into the bedroom, his right side relaxed enough to allow the rare hands-full caneless carry from kitchen to bedroom. Light from the street streaming through the half-closed blinds showed him a bare spot on Wilson's nightstand for the milk. He turned on the lamp, not at all concerned about blinding Wilson, and put the sandwiches down on a stack of oncology journals.

Taking a sandwich and the milk, he settled into a chair that had moved in with Wilson and was temporarily parked against the dresser to watch Wilson wake up. It was time for Wilson to take more pain meds and despite the annoyances of the afternoon, House hadn't given up on the prospect of a relaxing evening. He'd done his part toward that: he'd cooked. They both knew that when he'd gone to purchase ingredients for dinner, which he would "cook," what he really meant was that he'd spend the money and Wilson would do the cooking. No matter how angry he got, his stomach never forgot that Wilson was good to have around because he could make almost anything delicious. But he didn't just keep Wilson around because he could cook: there was also sex. If he had other reasons, he did his best not to think about them.

First sandwich gone, House limped back to the table and shook the milk loudly in front of Wilson's face. Wilson started and blinked confusedly at House. House smirked, took another sandwich, and went back to the chair.

Wilson wiped sleep off his face and sat up. He grimaced at the tent the covers made over his foot and the two pillows it was resting on, which it slid off of as he moved, and raised the covers to peek under.

He groaned dramatically. "I thought I dreamed that," he said, more to himself than House.

House chewed and watched him, amused by his reaction. Wilson was prone to blackouts when he drank too much: this wasn't much of a surprise. But it was still funny.

Wilson moved his pillow against the headboard so he could lean against it, still tired and fuzzy from the medication in his system. He watched House chewing like a cow with a bottle of milk in his lap and pieced together the afternoon, wondering how much was real and how much he'd dreamed. And why House had woken him up.

"What's up?" he asked when House didn't volunteer any information about why he'd shaken the milk so rudely in his face.

"I made dinner," House answered, nodding toward the plate of sandwiches on Wilson's night table. "My specialty."

Wilson picked up a sandwich and sniffed it cautiously. "No anchovies?"

House's head moved to one side and back in answer.

"How considerate," Wilson said, equal parts appreciation and sarcasm in his voice.

"Time for your meds, too," House said.

"Doesn't hurt," Wilson said through a mouthful of sandwich.

House sniffed. "Because I made you take them when we left," he said.

"Doesn't hurt," Wilson repeated. "Don't need 'em yet."

House rolled his eyes. "Does this conversation seem at all familiar to you?" He gave Wilson a pointed look.

Wilson realized what he was talking about: they _had _had this very conversation, ad nauseam, after the infarction.

"It's not—" Wilson began before he realized what he was about to say. "Okay, it is the same thing."

He rolled his eyes at House for being right and began to look around for the orange pill bottle. House nodded at the table and Wilson found it there, ready and waiting. He'd become so used to seeing light refract through orange plastic in this room that he checked the label to make sure it wasn't House's. Placing a pill on his tongue, he eyed the milk and gestured toward it. House glared at him but got up and gave him the carton. After so many years of marriage, Wilson had finally learned not to drink from the carton; a month with House had undone all of that training and he chugged without a second thought.

He held his arms out and opened his mouth, moving his tongue from side to side: _happy?_

The corner of House's mouth curled in the briefest of smiles before he took the milk back and grabbed a third sandwich. "Don't get crumbs in the sheets," he said as he retreated to the chair.

Wilson returned House's sarcastic quarter-smile while House was still in transit. Sparring with House had become more fun with the recent addition of sex, but right now he was more interested in distinguishing real events from dreamed events. He dream-remembered House forcing meds on him all day: given the gaps in his memory, that was probably real. He was sure that everything he remembered up to going to radiology was real. The dream-memory of screwing House in the ER and getting caught by Cuddy and Julie, who had been screwing each other in the next room and had come to complain about the noise, was probably a dream. He hoped. But the separate dream-memory of propositioning House in the ER…and the one about making House jerk him off in bed…had they really happened?

Wilson nibbled at his half-eaten sandwich, contemplating the likelihood of those events occurring. Finally, after he'd nibbled his way down to a third of a sandwich and House, after asking if Wilson wanted it, had taken the last one on the plate, he spoke up.

"We didn't have sex in the ER, did we?"

House's expression told Wilson that he'd been waiting all night for that question. "You wanted to," he answered.

"But we didn't."

House made a noncommittal face and shrugged a shoulder.

Wilson gave him a stern look. "House. This is important."

"Why?"

Wilson's expression became sterner. "You doped me up," he said. "I remember that much." He narrowed his eyes. "I think the police would consider it date rape."

House half-shrugged again. "You were the one who wanted to do it."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "We did _not_ have sex in the ER."

House sat with a smug look on his face for a moment, then drank seductively from the milk carton.

Wilson shook his head. "We didn't," he said decisively. "Okay." He eyed House again, not too sure of the veracity of this statement either: "But I wanted to."

"You were randy as a billy goat in spring," House replied with flourish.

Wilson let his head fall back against the headboard. "Tell me I didn't do anything stupid in front of anyone but you."

House raised his eyebrows. "You did several stupid things."

"Hou-se," Wilson complained.

House rolled his eyes: _all right, all right_. "Your honor is intact," he answered lightly. Quickly, his expression darkened. "But you did flirt with a nurse."

Wilson paused to search is memory.

"I don't remember flirting with a nurse," he said. "But I dreamt about fucking _you_, so don't get jealous."

House scoffed. "I've watched you flirt with nurses for years," he said. "You were flirting."

"I was drugged!" Wilson exclaimed. "If I asked you to sleep with me at work…" he paused, exasperated, trying to come up with the right words. All he could do was repeat himself. "I was drugged!"

House's eyes flitted from Wilson's face to the remains of his sandwich. "Finish your sandwich."

Wilson gave the sandwich an evil look, then turned beseeching eyes back to House. "You're not mad…?"

House's stare was just ambiguous enough that Wilson couldn't tell what the answer was. "I'll take it if you don't want it."

"Come on," Wilson said plaintively, "don't do this." He paused, waiting for House to respond. House said nothing. "I don't remember flirting with anyone," Wilson continued, "but if I did, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

House nodded to the sandwich. "Can I have that?"

If they'd had this conversation a month ago, Wilson would have shouted 'It's just a damn sandwich!' and the fight would have continued. Now he understood that this was House's attempt at reconciliation.

"If I give you this, will you stop pouting?" he asked, brandishing the sandwich.

House inclined his head slightly—yes—and Wilson held the sandwich out. House got up and took it, cramming the whole thing in his mouth. Wilson sniffed, shook his head, and commandeered the milk.

"Waffa waff ffeevee?" House asked.

Wilson smiled to himself: he'd been living with House too long: he understood that. _Wanna watch TV?_

He leaned over and brushed the crumbs off of his chest and the bed, then tossed the covers away.

"Sure."

THE END


	7. The Amazing Fish Explosion

Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

We're at the end. I'm a little sad to see this fic go. It could have gone in ten different directions and while I like where it ends up, it had more potential than this. It'll be the one that got away.

Big thanks to everyone who reviewed. You make my day. :)

**DISCLAIMER:** M80s are illegal in the United States (I don't know about other countries) because they're dangerous. Don't try this at home, etc.

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**Epilogue: The Amazing Fish Explosion**

A week later, House and Wilson stood beside the dumpsters in the alley next to House's building. The stone trout lay between the two dumpsters in front of them, enclosed in a ring of M80s. House had just finished tying the individual fuses to a long fuse they could light from afar, since neither was up to the task of lighting and running.

House leaned on his cane and Wilson leaned on his crutches, both looking down at the trout. Brilliant midday sunlight lit the alley and they squinted at the glare that bounced off the white-grey stone.

After a moment of silence in appreciation for the trout's last minutes, House spoke: "Care to say a few words?" Though he addressed Wilson, he didn't turn his attention from the fish.

Wilson too kept his eyes on the trout. He cleared his throat and began speaking in a eulogistic tone.

"Trouty, you were a horrible trout and an incompetent door stop. I didn't ask for you. I didn't want you. You broke my foot. I'm going to blow you up. Enjoy fish hell."

House nodded once. "Rest in pieces," he added gravely. "Amen."

They lingered a moment more, soaking up the sunshine and the fun of the impending explosion.

Wilson wanted to ask if the dumpster would shield them from the shrapnel—and if the ten M80s were enough to actually shatter the stone—but he stayed silent out of respect for the moment and House's knowledge of explosives. They hadn't fought once all week. House attributed it to Wilson's having learned just how annoying it was not to be able to cross a room without difficulty and to be asked over and over again if he was okay. Wilson attributed it to his decision to allow blow jobs and hand jobs at work as long as they were extremely discrete. Neither of them had lost a patient all week either—and they were both being more careful about starting fights because Wilson's foot made the callisthenic make-up sex they preferred more trouble than it was worth (hence Wilson's decision to rescind the 'no sex of any kind at work' rule). Whatever the reason, though, Wilson wasn't going to express concern about the fireworks (or about where House had gotten them). He would simply trust that House wouldn't get them killed. And if that happened, he would relish yelling at House for all of eternity.

"Lighter?" Wilson asked.

"Check."

"Shelter?"

House glanced at the dumpster. "Check."

They looked at each other, both overly serious, and nodded. Death to the infidel door stop.

Together they gimped to the other side of the dumpster where House had secured a 2x4 with a cement block to prevent injury from fish fragments flying under the wheeled dumpster. Wilson checked the alley while House crouched.

"All clear," Wilson said, beginning the process of crouching himself.

House waited until Wilson was ready, looking without turning his head, then flipped the Zippo open, lit the fuse, and dropped it.

They waited, faces scrunched, ears covered, bodies bending further in anticipation of the blast, and just when it was beginning to take too long, BANG! and the dumpster rocked against their backs. Small particles of stone rained around them.

Without words they got to their feet as quickly as possible, which was very slowly, and limped around the dumpster to survey the damage. A third of the fish's outer edge was gone and what was left was in several pieces that had caved in. The trout design was unrecognizable. A small hole had been blown in both dumpsters and a few stone fragments were lodged in the metal. The brick of the building the dumpsters clung to was chipped and stone debris with M80 shells mixed in was everywhere, including the alley beyond the dumpsters.

They grinned at the devastation and at each other. It was a magnificent demolition.

Once some of the excitement of the blast had worn off, Wilson leaned forward on his crutches.

"How long do you think before the cops get here?" he asked casually.

House leaned on his cane, unconsciously mirroring Wilson's posture. "If it's a slow day…" he paused, pretending to contemplate. He nodded decisively. "We should start running now."

Wilson, never eager to get caught breaking the law, didn't need to be told twice. "I was with you," he said as he started toward the alley's entrance. "That's my alibi."

House rolled his eyes. "Worst alibi I've ever heard."

"The cops know you that well?" Wilson asked, more in the spirit of fun than anything else because he already knew the answer.

"You think Cuddy hates me…"

Wilson wanted to shake his head, but he'd learned he couldn't do that and walk at the same time if he wanted to stay on his feet. He put the false disappointment into his voice instead. "Can't believe I let you talk me into these things…"

"You didn't really want to live forever," House said, vocalizing the shrug Wilson wouldn't be able to see.

"Yes, I did," Wilson said, carefully climbing the steps outside House's apartment. "I was going to discover the Fountain of Youth and be famous. Then I was going to fight Superman and be president of the world."

"No one could beat Superman in a fair fight," House said, waiting until Wilson had reached the landing and opened the door before he ascended the steps.

"You don't really believe that," Wilson tossed over his shoulder as he moved down the hall.

House closed the door to the entryway. "Who could beat him, then?"

"Well, me, for one," Wilson said as he nudged the apartment door open with a crutch.

"You and what powers?" House scoffed.

"Me and my acidic Kryptonite superspit."

House shook his head though Wilson's back was to him.

"That's not even remotely creative."

He followed Wilson inside and locked the door.

"I was eight, come on!" Wilson said as he turned to face House.

"Superheroes don't get to make excuses," House contended, leaning on his cane and waiting for Wilson to move out of his way.

"Eight year olds do."

"Immortal eight year olds don't."

"_Hou_-se."

"_Wil_-son."

They stared at each other, neither willing to give in.

After a while, House nodded toward the couch. "I always went with retractable Kryptonite claws," he admitted.

Wilson snorted. "_I'm_ not creative," he muttered, turning toward the living room.

House admired the view of Wilson's ass, smiling to himself as he followed.

"So," he said after they'd eased down and propped near-identical legs on the coffee table, "how would you defeat Spider-Man?"

THE (REAL) END


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